Leaving the Table
What UniVersus Taught Me About Burnout and Balance
by Andrew Holder
Games are supposed to be fun.
That's what I kept telling myself as I stared at the Katsuki Bakugo 1 starter deck — the same one I'd been playing for four weeks straight to avoid building something new. I told my locals that it was about making a statement about 50-card decks after the rule changes. I wasn't excited or pumped up — honestly, I was dreading it. The thought of spending hours stressing over every card felt exhausting. So, instead, I took the easy way out, hoping to get through the event without completely burning out. It wasn't about winning or playing my best anymore. It was about showing up without feeling overwhelmed.
For three years, Universus was my main game. I traveled, tested, recorded videos, streamed commentary, played in locals, and made top cuts at regionals. I qualified for Worlds. I was all in. If there was a new set dropping, I was already brewing. If there was a major coming up, my weekends were booked. At the time, it was everything I wanted. But somewhere along the way, the spark dimmed. What used to be exciting started to feel heavy. A game became an obligation instead of a passion.
It didn't happen all at once. Burnout is sneaky. One week, you're skipping locals because you're tired. The next, you're dreading a tournament you already paid for. You tell yourself it's just a phase. You say you'll feel better after this event or after this meta. But you don't. The joy keeps shrinking, and all you can see is the work. And then, maybe you find yourself watching a video about another game, just out of curiosity. Perhaps a friend shows you something new — a mechanic, a format, or a vibe that feels different. You try it out just for fun. And somehow, that feels effortless. That game feels like play again. You realize it's not just burnout; it's disconnection.
I kept pushing longer than I should have. Part of it was pride. Part of it was habit. But mostly? I didn't want to admit that the game I loved was no longer giving me what it used to. The crazy part about being so connected with Universus as a creator, a player, and a retailer was that it felt like stepping away meant letting people down, including myself. People were relying on me – my teammates, my locals, my customers, and my friends. If I walked away, even for a few weeks, I was letting them down.
But eventually, I did the thing that I had been contemplating for weeks. I walked away.
And the strangest thing happened: I felt better.
I didn't miss the pressure. I didn't miss the deck lists or the testing gauntlets. I didn't miss the hour-long discussions about some decks tier in the metagame. I missed people. I missed laughing over dumb plays, trading bad ideas, and getting hyped about cool cards. The good stuff. The fun stuff.
After a few months, I returned. Grabbing random decks on UVS Ultra and loading them up on TTS. A meme deck or two. Building Hiei because he's based (and I won't stand for any slander against Hiei here). And, you know what? For the first time in a long time, it felt good. Not because I was winning. Not because I was preparing. But because I was playing. I remembered why I sat down at the table in the first place.
Games are supposed to be fun.
It sounds obvious, right? But in competitive communities, we forget. We start treating games like work. We measure our worth by results and our time by productivity. The game becomes a checklist — matchups practiced, decks tweaked, tournaments scheduled— and somewhere along the way, the joy gets buried under all of it. We start to feel like if we're not pushing, we're falling behind. As if we're not allowed to just play.
But the truth is that if a game stops bringing you joy, it's okay to walk away. It doesn't mean you're not a real player. It doesn't mean you failed. It doesn't mean you're giving up on something important. It just means you're human, and your relationship with the game is allowed to change.
Some seasons are for climbing. Some are for coasting. And some are for stepping back and remembering why you started in the first place. That's not weakness. That's wisdom. It takes strength to listen to yourself and say, "Not right now," even when everyone else is saying go.
There's so much pressure to perform — to prove we still have it, to chase relevance, to show up even when we're running on fumes. But you don't owe the game your exhaustion. You don't owe the community your burnout. You deserve rest. You deserve fun. You deserve to remember what it feels like to sit down at the table with nothing on the line but the love of the game.
UniVersus taught me a lot about competition. It taught me about the importance of preparation, discipline, and adapting under pressure. But stepping away taught me just as much. It taught me how to rest, how to listen to myself, and how to find balance.
More importantly, it reminded me that success isn't the only measure of value. Not every game has to be a learning experience. Not every match has to matter. It's okay to play just because you like the character. It's okay to build janky decks that don't win. If it makes you smile, it's worth it.
There's also something freeing about not knowing the entire meta. You get surprised more. You rediscover cards you forgot. You spend less time trying to be optimal and more time being curious. And sometimes, that curiosity leads to creativity you'd never have found in the grind.
Here's something else I learned: community doesn't disappear just because you stop competing. Some of my favorite Universus memories aren’t about winning. They’re about eating at Waffle House at midnight after a regional and celebrating a friend's big top cut. They’re watching someone light up over their first 3-0 at a weekly and getting handed their first victory pack. The crazy thing is you can still have these moments without pouring your entire heart into the game.
These days, I still get excited about spoilers. I still watch tournament streams. I still cheer when someone breaks the meta in a cool way (shoutouts to Jorge Rangel, the Let's Talk UVS team, and Air Nick Ragan). But I also know how to turn it off. I know how to say, "Not this weekend." And instead of feeling guilt, I feel relief.
I still play. Not every day. Not every week. But when I do, I smile. Last week, I played some games with Phil Birch – two seven hand size aggro gremlins just slamming moves at one another. This is a matchup I would have dreaded seeing not even a year ago, but I walked away laughing about the absurdity of our decks. That's more important than any top cut. I may not be grinding tournaments anymore, but I'm still a part of this game. Just on my terms.
If you ever feel the burnout creeping in, don't be afraid to leave the table for a while. The cards will still be there. The community will still be there. Sometimes, the winning move is to pause, take a breath, and return on your terms. And if you come back — when you come back — you might find that spark waiting for you, too.
Because, after all, games are supposed to be fun.
And you deserve to have fun.
